My head. In despair and self-revulsion. I suppose the faces behind the steering wheels on Moorpark Avenue have seen too many homeless panhandlers to think my behavior unusual.

You'd suppose a lot of things. Like me being good at flute. At least Evan did when he asked me:

“What're you playing tomorrow?” It was Thursday afternoon, and we were on the floor against Jesse's locker sharing cookies. I'd just taken a huge bite of homemade double chocolate chip and couldn't answer. I resurfaced after about twenty seconds and mumbled, “Reinecke. Sonata.”

What Evan thought of that:

“Good stuff. Isn't one of the movements supposed to sound like water moving?”

How Krishan was more articulate about his supposition that I was good:

He walked up while I was practicing outside that morning, bounced up and down, and squealed, “OMG, you sound really, really good!” Were they both sincere? Yes. Although Krishan would have beat Evan for Best Actor.

3:34 p.m., after getting cut off:

Where are you now, Evan and Krishan? Both in the front row to my left. Figuratively putting their heads in their hands and their fingers in their ears, wondering how they could have supposed such a monstrosity.

6:10 p.m., wandering along Moorpark, the only place where traffic is thin enough for me to jaywalk:

Right outside a funeral home. Morbidly germane. Maybe later, buddy.

3:35 p.m.:

Begin the Inquisition.

My tormentors' consensus:

1. Bad posture.

2. Unacceptable pre-playing compulsive tonguing habit.

3. Poor air support system.

Punitive/corrective measures taken:

1. Stand me with my legs about two feet apart, right foot way out behind. Are we doing lunges or something?

2. Wrench my shoulders back to maximize my tidal volume. At least, that was the theory.

3. Push my left shoulder so that I must push back or topple over. Apparently this should also bolster my core.

4. Poke my stomach at intervals to make sure I am using my abdominal muscles.

5. Instruct me to resume playing while all this is going on. No big deal, you know. Just a regular practice run-through.

Unwanted pop culture connection that sprang to mind when Amelia smiled menacingly at me and said, “I'm the pusher,” and proceeded to prove it:

Speed with which the ghost of a smile disappears from my face when I realize I sound like crap and Jill is poking my stomach:

Faster than light travels. What would that look like?

Right now I must be wearing anything but:

A poker face.

3:40 p.m. How I have failed Lady Gaga:

Tears are welling in my eyes. Kassey pulling my ponytail is not helping, either. And my nose is running.

6:15 p.m. The state of my eyes:

Moist. But not brimming.

Something I'm thankful for:

The sidewalks of the little neighborhoods between Blackford and Williams Avenues are deserted.

Something I'm not thankful for:

The auditorium is far from deserted. Everyone's watching me wither – my fellow flutists, Florio, Melody's dad, who's also a flute teacher, various non-flutist friends of my colleagues, and all the theater kids who just want to get credit for attending a workshop. But I know what they really want. They just want to watch me …

3:45 p.m.:

… get a tissue from the box, stage left. Kassey, I think, is concerned. Or at least embarrassed. But Jill or Amelia reassures her that I'm just blowing my nose. They won't have long to wait. The tears are coming.

6:17 p.m., interesting sight I pass along Saratoga Avenue:

A psychic's home business.

A question to pose to the psychic:

Where in the world will I be tomorrow? How far am I able to see? My vision is 20/20, but through the tears it's about 20/70.